CHAPTER XXVIII
Had Philip Wouvermans lived half a century later than he did, the splendid brush he wielded would have found greater scope in the region he knew so well than it ever obtained, superb as his work was. For now, over all that portion of Europe known generically as the Netherlands, or Low Countries, there was the movement and the colouring this master delighted in-armies marching and fro, encamping one night at one place and at another on the next, bivouacking here to-day and there to-morrow, attacking or attacked, conquering or being repulsed. Armies, regiments, even small detachments, were clad sometimes in the royal blue of France, sometimes in the scarlet of England; while, intermixed with the former, might be seen the yellow grey of Spain or the dark green of Bavaria; and, with the latter, the snuff-brown of Holland or the pale blue of Austria. As they marched along the roads, singing the songs of the lands from which they drew their birth, or across fields, the ripened corn and wheat were trampled under their and their chargers' feet or beneath the coarse, iron-bound wheels of their gun carriages, since, now that war was over and around all, the luckless peasants and landowners found but little opportunity of reaping those fields.
Yet neither was it the passage of these armies alone that disturbed those unfortunate dwellers in the scene of contest, since, sometimes, their fields and orchards and copses would witness some small yet sanguinary conflict between the hostile forces. On such occasions their downtrodden corn would become dyed crimson; the branches of their fruit trees would be cut down by whistling musket bullets or heavy cannon balls; their copses, sought out for shelter, would become the death-bed of many a gallant man whose eyes had opened to the light in lands far distant from those in which they finally closed. And then, routed, the vanquished would not march but rush along the roads once more, the victors would hurry after them in furious pursuit, and the unhappy owners of the soil and all it bore would be left bemoaning the ruin that had befallen them, ruin that the passage of years could alone repair.
Amid such scenes as these the Comtesse de Valorme and Sylvia were passing now as gradually they drew near to Maestricht, where, as they had learnt, they would, even if they did not come into touch with some portion of the English army, at least discover something as to its whereabouts. They knew this, they had learnt it, by words overheard outside inns at which they halted at nights; by witnessing the frantic gestures and listening to the excited talk of the half-Brabant, half-Guelderland boors as they discussed the coming of the English and others. Also, they had learnt by now that to make their way easily along these roads it were best they should be anything but French; for the English were sweeping like a tornado through all the land, the French were in most instances retreating or fortifying themselves in old towns and castles; the English, for whom all Netherlanders had been looking so long, were at hand at last.
Therefore, from now, neither Sylvia nor the Comtesse spoke in anything but English, excepting only when the native dialect was necessary to cause their desires to be understood, when Sylvia, whose long residence in Liége had enabled her to be well acquainted with the local dialects, used that.
"There is no news of the approach of the allied forces as yet?" the Comtesse asked, as Sylvia, looking out of a carriage they had taken possession of when they had discarded the rough country charrette, drew in her head after a slight conversation with a peasant.
"None," the girl answered wearily. "None. And during all this time they may have-" and she paused, shuddering.
"Nay, dear heart," the Comtesse said, her English clear and distinct as it had been when she astonished Bevill by addressing him in it. "Nay, have no fear. I-I-extorted from De Violaine-Heaven help me! I was but endeavouring to play on his memories of the past for our, for your sake-the knowledge that he could not yet be brought to trial. I myself have no fear of that."
"I myself cannot but have fears; for he has won my heart, my love. Oh! Radegonde, had it been you who loved him, you whom he loved, you could not be as calm as now you are."
"It may be so," the Comtesse said softly. "Doubtless it would have been so had it chanced that I had learned to love him-if he had learned to love me," and then was silent.
Something, however, some strange inflection in her voice caused Sylvia to look round at her companion, when, seeing that the Comtesse's face was averted, and that she was gazing out of the window, she added:
"Ah! forgive me. Who am I, a girl who has but now found happiness in a man's love, to speak thus to you who have suffered so-to you whose own heart died with M. de Valorme?"
But the Comtesse, beyond a whispered "Yes," said no more.
That, however, these two women, always good friends and companions and now united in one great desire-the desire of saving the life of a man who possessed in their eyes the greatest charm that can, perhaps, appeal to woman's nature, that of heroism-should cease to talk of him as much as they thought of him, is not to be supposed. While, as they so thought and also talked, each was reflecting on every chance favourable and unfavourable that might tell for or against their hero.
"Who was this spy, I wonder," Sylvia said now, "of whom Francbois spoke? The man whom he accused Bevill of slaying that night in the Weiss Haus? Radegonde, did he confide in you?"
"No more than in you," the Comtesse answered. "Surely, too, he would have chosen the woman he loved for his confidante?"
"Or, rather, have doubly feared to confide in that woman and to, thereby, bring fresh misery to the heart he had but just won for his own."
"Ah, yes," the Comtesse said, again in a low voice. "Doubtless that was his reason."
Returning, however, to the matter of the spy, Sylvia, who thought that in this man's death might lurk some deeper danger to Bevill than even that which was threatened by his obtaining entrance into a town beleaguered by the French, and by his doing so under a false name, as well as doubly threatened through a letter from Lord Peterborough being found in his possession-asked again:
"Not even in your journey from Louvain to Liége did he mention him?"
"Yes, if this man is the same as he who sought to have him detained, first at Antwerp and afterwards at St. Trond; if, too, Emile Francbois has not coined one further lie in his desire to ruin him. Yet you know all this as well as I, Sylvia. You have learnt from Mr. Bracton of his escape from Antwerp on the horse, with the passport of Le Blond, and of how, after seeing the man again at St. Trond, he left the place next morning before I did so, though that man had then disappeared and had not even returned to his lodging at the inn where they both put up."
"Yes, that I know. He told me more than once of his escapes from the broken soldier, Sparmann, who had become a spy in the service of his country's enemies, as also he told me how he hated passing under a false name, a false guise, no matter how good the cause was. Ah!" she went on, "his honour, his full sense of honour shone forth in every regret he uttered, even while he acknowledged how good was the cause which compelled the subterfuge. It must be Sparmann who was wounded to the death in my house, though not by Bevill, since he denies it. Yet, had he in truth slain the man who sought to slay him, it would have been no crime."
"He did not slay him. His every action, his every tone, when Francbois denounced him as having done so, was a testimony to the truth of his denial; though, since both Sparmann and Francbois were each working to the same end, were each in that lonely deserted house, intent on slaying Bevill-Mr. Bracton-why should they fight, why should each attempt to slay the other?"
"Ah!" murmured Sylvia, "if we could but know that-which, alas! we never shall, since Sparmann is dead, and Francbois will never utter aught but lies-then that heavy charge against him would be removed."
"It is in truth the heaviest, if not the one that will bear hardest of all against him."
"Which, then, is the worst?"
"The possession of Lord Peterborough's letter. Sylvia," the Comtesse said, strangely agitated as she thought on all that threatened Bevill. "If the Allies have not taken Liége ere he is tried, I dread to think of what may befall him. I pray God that Lord Marlborough may already be on his road."
After which both women became so overcome and, indeed, almost hysterical by the terror of what might happen to Bevill, that for a time they could speak no more, but, instead, took refuge in tears.
They could not, however, cease their endeavours to discover what chances there were of Marlborough being somewhere in the immediate neighbourhood. They recognised that, even if he were near and they could reach him and obtain speech with him, the mission on which they came could have but little, if indeed it had any, influence on his plans, all-absorbing though that mission was to them. Only they were distracted with grief and horror of what was impending in Liége, and in their distraction clutched at the only hope in the existence of which they could believe.
The carriage was at this time passing through one of those many plantations of young trees that, from far-off times, it has been the custom of the inhabitants of this rich marshy soil to plant at regular intervals, with a view to always providing themselves with vast stocks of timber for building as well as fuel. But since the road, if it were worthy of the name, was not only a muddy track but also encumbered by logs of felled wood that had been thrown across it by some of the many contending forces with the intention of impeding the progress of their rivals, the vehicle proceeded but slowly when it proceeded at all, and often enough the wheels stuck fast.
Looking out of the window as an obstruction once more occurred for about the tenth time since the carriage had entered this plantation, or young forest, Sylvia suddenly uttered an exclamation; while, drawing in her head, she said in a tone that the Comtesse could not mistake for aught but one of joy:
"They are here! We have found them! Heaven above be praised!"
"Here? Who?" the Comtesse also exclaimed. "The English? The Allies?"
"Some of them at least. Oh! Radegonde, I have seen their scarlet coats, and, on one, the gorget of our dragoon officers. Yet, alas! alas! they are retiring; he who wears the gorget has disappeared behind a larger tree than all the others."
"Cry out then! Cry to him! Call him back! Let us do anything to arrest their attention. If we fail to speak with them now we may not find their commander for days."
"No, no; we need not," Sylvia again exclaimed now. "They have observed us. They are coming towards us, doubtless to see what this carriage contains. Two officers. And they are English. Thank God!"
As she said, so it was. The two officers now approaching the carriage had seen it long before Sylvia had perceived them, and were at once inspired with the scouts'-for such they and their men were-proper sense of duty, namely, to discover what was the business of everyone with whom they might chance to come into contact. But-as the phrase which had sprung into use when the century, still so young, had but just dawned, ran-"It was seventeen hundred and war time," and, above almost all else, in war time prudence is necessary. Therefore, on seeing the carriage approach, the officers had retreated behind the great tree, while their troopers had ridden deeper into the plantation and, from there, the former had been able to observe who and what were those inside the vehicle.
"Women!" one said to the other. "Dangerous enough sometimes, when armed for our subjection and clad in velvet and Valenciennes, yet harmless here, unless they be spies of the enemy. No matter, 'tis our duty to discover who and what they are." Whereupon the officers turned their horses' heads towards the carriage, and the animals picked their way through what was almost a quagmire until they reached it.
Their laced hats in hand, the two young men bowed gracefully as they drew near the window, after which the captain, speaking in fair French, though not such as Bevill Bracton spoke, asked in a gentle, well-bred voice if there were any directions or assistance they could give mesdames to aid them on their route? But, ere he had concluded his courteous speech, he halted in it and finished it in but a shambling manner; for his eyes, discreetly as he had used them to observe the equal, though different, beauty of each woman, had told him that one at least of those before him was not seen for the first time. And that one-the Comtesse-was herself gazing fixedly at him.
"Madame travels far; madame's journey is not yet concluded," he murmured. "Madame has left Liége."
"It is so, monsieur," the Comtesse said speaking in English. "I understand monsieur. It was outside St. Trond that he saw me when his late brother officer, Mr. Bracton, joined me," while as she spoke she felt Sylvia start.
"That is the case, madame. But madame still travels on, though unaccompanied by Bracton. Another companion," he said, with a faint but respectful smile, "has usurped his place. Does he still remain in Liége; has he not yet succeeded in that which he desired to do-namely, in removing the lady he went to seek from out the grasp of our good friends the French?"
It was not, however, Madame de Valorme who answered his question, but, instead, her companion.
"Sir," said Sylvia-and as the captain's glance was drawn to her as she spoke he saw that her large grey eyes were full of a sadness that, to his mind at least, by no means obscured her beauty-"I am the woman he went to seek."
"You? Yet you are here alone. Where, then, is he?"
"Alas! alas! he is a prisoner. He-oh! it is hard to tell, to utter. He did all that man might do, but he was denounced to M. de Violaine by a vile spy who recognised him, and-and-ah! God help him, he is a prisoner in the citadel; and I-I-am free-I who should be by his side in safety or in danger. I who should be as much a prisoner as he."
Bewildered, the young man looked from Sylvia to the Comtesse and then back to Sylvia, while muttering, "We heard something of that spy and what he attempted on him at Antwerp and St. Trond-"
"That is not the man. He is dead-"
"Bracton slew him at last!"
"No, no! Another-some other did so. Perhaps the man who finally betrayed him," the Comtesse de Valorme said, since Sylvia seemed now almost incapable of speaking, so agitated had she become. After which, seeing that the captain of dragoons appeared to be totally unable to gather the meaning of what had happened, though recognising the danger in which Bevill stood, the Comtesse at once proceeded to give him as brief, though clear, an account of all that had occurred in Liége as it was possible to do. And, also, she told him their fears for what might still occur ere long. But one thing she did not tell him-namely, of how her own original desire of reaching Marlborough with a view to imploring his influence that aid might be sent to the Cevennes had, for the moment, given place to a far greater desire-the desire of in some way obtaining Bevill's earthly salvation, the salvation of a man whose life, though now bound up in that of Sylvia's as Sylvia's was in his, had become very precious to her.
CHAPTER XXIX
Captain Barringer-as the young officer of dragoons had now told Sylvia and the Comtesse his name was, while presenting the lieutenant to them as Sir George Saxby-showed both by his tone and words that the gravity of Bevill's position was extreme, though he took care to add that the fact of there being no Court of Inquiry ready to be formed at the present moment was a considerable point in his chance of ultimate escape.
In absolute fact, however, had it not been for the grief-stricken face of the handsome girl before him, the girl in whose eyes the tears now welled and hung upon the lids, even if they did not drop, and also the grave, solemn face of the Comtesse-he might have told them, as gently as possible, that in his soldier's mind the chances of Bevill's escape were almost nonexistent. "What," he asked himself, the question being but a flash of thought through his brain, and not expressed in words, "would our commanders have done had a Frenchman made his way into one of the strong places we now hold, as Bracton has made his way into Liége? What, if he were accused of slaying one of our supposed spies, if he had in his possession a letter from as great a hater of England as Lord Peterborough is of France, and if, contrary to all orders issued, he had endeavoured to escape out of one of those places with a young Frenchwoman who might divulge to her countrymen our plans and intentions? What, also, if that Frenchman had passed as an Englishman and had possession of two false passports made out in English names?"
Yet in another instant there had flashed to this astute young officer's mind another thought-one that was, this time, a recollection.
He recalled how at Nimeguen an almost similar case to this had occurred a little before Marshal de Boufflers had attempted to retrieve that city for the French, to wrest it from the Allies' hands. A Frenchman, named the Marquis de Cabrieres, a gentleman and gallant, too, had managed to obtain entrance into the place under the guise of an Englishman-a Jersey man-armed with papers describing him as a subject of the Queen; and had then endeavoured to assist a young French lady, his affianced wife, to leave in disguise under his care. Now he lay under sentence of death, since the warrant awaited the signature of Marlborough or Athlone when they should be in the neighbourhood again.
But a flash of thought alone, of memory, was all that passed through the young officer's mind, even as Sir George Saxby was telling Sylvia and the Comtesse that at this moment the Earl was encamped near a village called Asch, but half a day's journey off; yet his sudden recollection was enough-enough to convince him that, even as De Cabrieres was doomed by the English, so must Bevill Bracton be by the French for a parallel offence.
Now, however, he had no further time for reflection. Sylvia, hearing of their nearness to the one man who, in their minds, could by any possibility save her lover, was imploring both captain and lieutenant to either conduct them to where the great English commander was, or at least to direct them on the way to him.
"We can escort you," Captain Barringer now said, forcing himself to drive the above thoughts away and answer her, "since we are even now on our way to Asch. There is little more to be learnt here; for the moment the ground is clear of Frenchmen and Spaniards. Though, doubtless, ladies, you will scarcely believe," he went on in a purposely assumed lighter vein, hoping thereby to banish the agony of mind in which both the Comtesse and Sylvia were, "what excellent neighbours, warm and close, we have been sometimes with those Frenchmen and Spaniards. A hedge, a little copse, has sometimes only divided our pickets and outposts from theirs; the very tables on which we have broken our fast at some tavern have been used by them for the same purpose but an hour before; and sometimes, too, we have courteously exchanged a few volleys of musket balls with each other, but that is all! The great battle that must come soon is not yet; not yet. Still, it will come," he added more gravely.
And now they set forth for Asch, though but slowly and with difficulty, since the wheels of the carriage (which was only a coarse country thing, large and cumbersome and roughly made) had by now sunk deep into the oozy morass, and required not only the efforts of the driver, but also those of the troopers, to force it on its way. Nevertheless, Sylvia and her companion were soon on their road towards the goal of their hopes, but, although such was the case, Captain Barringer deemed it necessary to say that it was by no means certain that, even when they had reached the end of their journey, they would be able to see and speak with Marlborough.
"For his secretary, Mr. Cardonnel, guards him like a fiery dragon," the captain said; "and he is surrounded by his staff, who are also veritable watch-dogs; notwithstanding which we will hope for the best. While, since my Lord Marlborough is a very gallant gentleman, he will surely turn no deaf ear to ladies who desire to ask his services?"
With which, and many other courteous as well as hope-inspiring phrases, not only Captain Barringer but also Sir George Saxby endeavoured to cheer the way for these who were now under their protection.
It was as the sun set that, from the windows of the rough carriage, Sylvia and the Comtesse gazed out upon the lines of the English army upon which were fixed the hopes of all who still trembled in fear of the powerful and arrogant monarch who from Versailles sent out his orders for wholesale spoliation and aggrandisement. He was the hope of Protestants in the sunny south of France, as well as of those in the more temperate land of Prussia and of those who dwelt all along the fair banks of the Rhine; the hope of all those who inhabited that vast district which stretched from the German ocean to the north of France on one side, and to Hanover another. While-bitter mockery when it is remembered what the origin of the present war was! – the same hopes for the downfall of this Grand Monarque-this prince termed the "God-sent" – were felt in far-off Spain by Roman Catholic hidalgos who loathed the thought that a French king should sit upon the throne once owned by those in whose veins ran the blood of Castile, of Aragon, the Asturias, and Trastamara. Hopes shared, too, though silently, by the rude fishermen of Biscay and Galicia as well as by the outlaws and brigands of Traz os Montes and Cantabria, who, while they bowed the knee to Romish emblems and statues, cursed in their lawless hearts the monarch who would endeavour to obtain for himself the throne that they and their forerunners of centuries had fought for, while putting aside temporarily their existence of plunder and brigandage.
Beneath a blood-red sun setting behind purple clouds that told of further storms and downpours still to come, the Comtesse de Valorme and Sylvia saw the long English line stretching from village to village; from the hamlet of Asch on the right to that of Ghenck on the left, and with Recken and Grimi on either flank. Also, they saw that with which both were well acquainted-the banner of England flying from a large tent in the middle of the camp, as well as the colours of regiments which, in that day, young in service, have since transmitted and gloriously maintained the reputation then acquired.
"Here, if nowhere else," the Comtesse said, "one should feel safe; yet, oh!" she whispered half to herself, "that I, a Frenchwoman, should have to seek double succour from my country's enemies! Simply because the ambition, the fanaticism of one man bears heavily on thousands of lives. Double succour! On one side for my own people; on the other for one, also my country's foeman, whom I have learned-to pity."
But Sylvia heard her words, low as the murmur was in which they were spoken, and answered gently:
"You are but one of all those thousands whose hearts he-this splendid bigot-is turning from him; but one alone of those who, throwing off their allegiance to him for ever, are peopling lands strange to them. Regret it not, reproach not yourself for that. Better die an outcast, yet free; a voluntary exile than an ill-treated subject, a slave. While as for Bevill-but ah! I dare not speak, not think of him. Beyond Heaven, in whose hands we all are, his-our-hopes are in him whom now we go to seek."
The carriage, escorted by the two dragoon officers who rode ahead of it, and by their handful of troopers behind, was now nearing that great tent over which streamed in the light of the setting sun the flag of England, and also passing through lines of English soldiers. Past the Cuirassiers, or Fourth Horse, it went-Sylvia's hand to her heart as she recognised that this was the regiment to which he had once belonged, from which he, wickedly, unjustly, had been cast out. Past, too, the gallant Scots Regiment of White Horses, as well as "Coy's Horse," or 2nd Irish Horse, the King's Carabineers, and many others of the cavalry, as well as several infantry regiments, including fourteen companies of the Grenadiers. And, at last, they were outside Marlborough's tent: the moment to which both had looked forward, from which they hoped so much, was at hand.
"I will enter to my lord's staff," Captain Barringer said, "and state your desires. Meanwhile, something of your names and condition I must know. What shall I tell him, whom announce?" and his eyes fell on the Comtesse, perhaps because she was the elder. Upon which she answered:
"Tell him," she said, "that a Protestant Frenchwoman from Languedoc seeks assistance from him on two matters-both grave, and one vital. A Frenchwoman whose name is Radegonde, Comtesse de Valorme."
The captain bowed, while repeating the words to himself as though to impress them thoroughly in his mind; then he looked at Sylvia.
"Tell him," she said in turn, "that an Englishwoman, one Sylvia Thorne, is here to seek succour from him for the man she loves-the man who, if God so wills it, is to be her husband. And that man is a countryman to both my lord and her. Also he has been an English soldier. But this you know."
It was half an hour later that the captain came back, and, speaking in a low voice, said that the Earl of Marlborough would receive the ladies who desired to speak with him. After which he handed them out of the carriage, and, taking them to the opening of the tent, passed them through the sentries on either side. From there he confided them to a man who had the appearance of being a body-servant, one who bade them respectfully follow him.
But as they left the captain he whispered in their ears:
"Have no fear, no trepidation; and tell him all-all! You are about to see the most brilliant soldier, the most courtly gentleman, in Europe."
A moment later the man had held a curtain aside and had retired after letting it drop behind them again, and they were face to face with the greatest captain of the age.
He was standing in front of a brazier in which burned some logs, for the evenings were growing colder now and the damp was over all, and as the women's eyes fell on that handsome presence and noted the wonderful serenity of the features, any trepidation they might have felt vanished.
Clad in his dark blue coat-he was Colonel of the Blues-with, beneath it, the ribbon of the Garter across his breast, he stood facing the curtain until they appeared, and then, advancing towards them, lifted the hand of each to his lips, while murmuring some courteous phrase, immediately after which he placed two rough chairs before them and begged them to be seated.
"Madame la Comtesse," he said now, and they noticed the refined, courtly tones of a voice that, though soft and even, was a little shrill. "I have heard your tale briefly from Captain Barringer. If help can come from me it shall. Yet am I vastly concerned to know how I can offer aid."
"My lord," said Sylvia, lifting her eyes to his, while little knowing how he had noticed her beauty in one swift glance, "it is said in Liége that you will be soon there; and then-then-then the French will be no longer in possession of that city."
His lordship smiled slightly as she said this and seemed to muse an instant, after which he said:
"It may be so; but ere that can be, I must clear my way to Liége. There are towns and fortresses upon the road. Venloo is one, and time is necessary."
"Time! Oh!" the girl almost gasped. "Time! And in that time they may have tried Mr. Bracton and-ah! I cannot utter it!"
"It may indeed be so," he murmured, seeing the look on Sylvia's face. "I would not say a word to alarm you; but courts-martial, trials in war time, are apt to be swift. And the condition of Mr. Bracton is perilous; he has placed himself in a dangerous position."
"My lord," the Comtesse said, "we have heard but lately that in your hands is one, the Marquis de Cabrieres, who lies under sentence of death for a similar offence against you and a town in your possession. Yet he still lives. May it not be the same, may we not hope the same respite, for Mr. Bracton?"
As she spoke, not only she, but Sylvia too, saw that her words had had some strange effect on the Earl. They observed a light come in his eyes, a little more colour mount to his cheeks-evidences that those words had produced in his mind some striking effect. That effect they were soon to learn.
He went to a coarse, wooden table, covered with papers-a table that had, doubtless, been purchased with many others for a few gulden at some town through which the army passed, and, taking from off it two of those papers, said, as he held them in his hand:
"Here is a letter to M. de Boufflers which I have caused to be written-such things are usual enough between the conflicting armies-suggesting an exchange of prisoners-"
"Ah!" exclaimed Sylvia. "I understand."
"Yet, see," Marlborough went on imperturbably, "I destroy it," and he suited the action to the word. Then observing, as he observed everything, the look of horror, of broken-hearted grief, on the faces of the others at his action, he added, "Because Mr. Bracton's name is not in it; because I was ignorant of him, though now I remember his name and the circumstances of his removal from the Cuirassiers. Yet, I beseech you, be easy in your minds. Another letter shall be written; it shall contain his name."
"God in heaven bless you!" Sylvia murmured.